


staring at ceiling in the dark, same empty feeling in your heart (love comes slow and it goes so fast)

by sobsicles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: LITERALLY, M/M, Pining, Sam and Dean play hide and seek in a field, Sexual Tension, after dean was a demon, also dean has a journal, also rowena is a damn treat, and maybe he needs a hug too, canon typical levels of violence, cas and dean did the do while dean was a demon, curing him didnt make everything perfect, dean does not have the mark for reasons the author will not disclose, dean has a bad time, dean has some trouble with his body, dean is cured now and things are...tense, deans internal monologue is just poetry about cas, deans soul needs soothing, meaning the author didnt come up with a reason, sam is the best big little bro, set vaguely in season 10, sorry - Freeform, there is not smut, this fic acts like there will be smut, which...same, whoops, yeah i made that happen youre welcome, you know...the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:07:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21741937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sobsicles/pseuds/sobsicles
Summary: They're not supposed to talk about what happened, not supposed to be thinking about it, not supposed to acknowledge it. They're supposed to act like it never happened.That's proving to be very difficult for Dean.There are wants scratching against his skin, begging to be let out. Releasing them once wasn't his fault, but it's a bitch of a problem to handle.How's he supposed to forget the feeling of Cas writhing in his arms, panting in his ear, staring at him with such reverence and need? Dean can't; it's like the memories lay in the center of his brain, latched onto every other part, pushing its into every fucking thought he has. It's just…there.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 41
Kudos: 409





	staring at ceiling in the dark, same empty feeling in your heart (love comes slow and it goes so fast)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so, so stupidly pleased with this one, y'all. I can't really pinpoint why, but it was such a joy to write. I sincerely hope y'all have as much fun reading it as I did writing it. 
> 
> Back on my bullshit, as y'all know, so...
> 
> Enjoy ;)

So. 

So, the thing about desperation, and want, and  _ desire,  _ and how it controls, is that it's all bullshit, and Dean wants absolutely no part in it. 

Because, the part of him embracing his baseless desires, forgotten hopes, castaway dreams--it's gone now, sheltered by the man he was, the man he is, the man he's always been. Man, with just a dash of monster, not the other way around. 

“I'm fine,” he says to anyone who will listen, nods his head, gives a weary smile. 

He's not; he hasn't been for a very long time. 

He remembers, very easily, what it had been like. It wasn't like he was taken over; he was himself. Just the parts he buries, or ignores, or determinedly doesn't acknowledge. The part that thrills in a kill, the part that fucks like it's a sport, the part that aches to escape the heavy pressure of caring for a brother more than he cares for himself, the part that wants to defile an angel, the part that feels everything and nothing. 

He can't get the words out without choking. “You, uh, you look good, Cas,” he says, hates the way his best friend won't even meet his eyes. 

They don't look at each other, can't, not with the cascading memories sloping between them. A flash of naked skin, a puff of breath against his ear, a wicked smile, a soft exhale that feels like  _ I love you  _ against various patches of skin. Dean can still feel fingers in his hair, and the ghost of Cas’ lips sometimes still press against his throat. 

Dean swallows when Cas offers him a weak smile and whispers, “I feel good.” 

Eyes drop from each other like trees falling in a forest, sudden and silent. Dean clears his throat, coughs out, “About what happened…” 

He can't say anymore, has no idea why he's mentioning it; they could ignore it, act like they don't know the press of each other's bodies, pretend they don't remember mapping out all the landmarks of each other's skin. 

“Yes,” Cas murmurs softly, still looking away, “ _ that.”  _

That. Like it's something they need to pick up and put away, something to clip away in some box, slide it under the floorboards, let it rest there for eternity, never meant to see the light of day again. Dean agrees,  _ totally,  _ but it still stings. 

Because he is who he is, he blurts out, “It wasn't that bad,” and he immediately winces after. 

Cas blinks. “No, not at all,” he says carefully, his eyes flicking up for one moment, a strange intensity there, and  _ no,  _ Dean's not doing this. 

“It was a mistake,” Dean tells Cas forcefully, like maybe he doesn't agree. 

It  _ was.  _

Cas nods quickly. “Yes, yes, of course. You were--you weren't yourself.” 

Dean swallows the immediate,  _ yes I was,  _ and quickly mutters, “Right, and you were…losing your grace, trying to live, all that.” 

Cas’ lips turn in, like they're the last barrier holding something in. Dean watches, waits, wonders if Cas will let it slip. He's half-curious, half-terrified; he wants to know, but he  _ really  _ doesn't want to find out. Cas expels a long breath and just nods. 

Dean nods. “Okay.” 

Cas looks to his feet, murmurs, “Okay.” 

And that is that. 

* * *

Dean can't dream anymore. He supposes he should be grateful; there are no more nightmares, no more interrupted nights, no more horrors shoving him awake with a racing heart. 

But it's terrifying. He goes to sleep, falls off into darkness, and has no sense of himself when he wakes. He can't remember sleeping, can't remember waking, just is and isn't. 

He spends a lot of time awake. 

It's a week after he was cured, two in the morning, and Dean pads around the kitchen quietly. He eats a bowl of cereal, barely registering the taste, and wonders vaguely if it would be weird if he still wants to do karaoke. He remembers the freedom of singing into a mic, uncaring if he was any good or not, just enjoying something that felt selfish. 

Dean finishes his cereal, pushes the thoughts from his mind, starts to his room. He tries to prepare himself for the ominous feeling of forgetting the routine of falling asleep, but it makes him feel unsettled, like the time he and Sam rode the ferry with their dad; Sam had squealed in delight, Dean had puked over the side of the massive boat, and John had called him weak. 

_ Motion-sickness, not weakness,  _ Dean tells himself. 

He feels in a constant state of motion-sickness, like he's rocking back and forth in his own body, like he can't calibrate his limbs and right himself again. His bones rattle under his skin, his muscles pull in the wrong directions, and sometimes, his left hand moves when he's told his right to. He's not the same anymore, and he has no idea how to fix that. 

_ Can't be the same, not after that,  _ Dean assures himself. 

Dean rounds the corner and collides with a body. The faint scent of cinnamon, and honey, and rain fills his nose as he breathes in sharply. Cas reaches out, settles him, fingers lightly draping over the bend of his shoulders. Blue eyes blink at him, pretty lips curl down in confusion, and Cas’ whole body goes still. 

And Dean suddenly wants to lean in, press his nose to Cas’ neck, breathe in that faint, undeniable smell that belongs only to Cas. Maybe press his lips, trail his tongue, delight in the salty taste of Cas’ skin. He knows exactly how Cas shudders when he does that, a small tremor traveling down his spine. Dean wants to wrap his arms around him, feel it move, make it happen over and over. 

“Dean?” Cas croaks out, his chest rising and falling, faster and faster and  _ faster.  _

Dean tells his body very firmly to snatch away, back off, make space. It just isn't  _ listening  _ to him, and he leans forward, hands moving across open air. Before he can connect, Cas drops his hands and takes a solid step back, throat bobbing. 

“I'm sorry,” Dean apologizes automatically, holds back the urge to tell Cas that everything feels like motion-memory now. 

“You said--” 

“I know.” 

Cas frowns at him. “Dean,” he says again, the name firmer this time, almost scolding him. 

Dean shakes his head, shakes out his limbs, shakes the thoughts away. “I'm just--I'm tired. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?” 

Cas starts to reach out, to say something, aborts both and ducks his head. “Okay.” 

Dean leaves, but doesn't remember falling asleep, doesn't remember waking up. He's walking away from Cas, then he's walking into the kitchen. 

Tired, he's so tired. 

* * *

“You sure you're okay?” Sam asks, not for the first time.

Dean desperately hopes it's the last. He's not okay, he knows this. It's taking him a ridiculous amount of time to come back to himself. He's still looking in the mirror and expecting to see black eyes. 

Dean rolls his eyes. “I'm fine, Sam.” 

“Okay, but that's the third time you've dropped your gun in the last two minutes, and I've  _ never  _ seen you drop your guns while cleaning them,” Sam tells him seriously, ever the observant one. 

Dean picks his gun back up, trying to figure out which hand it feels right in. Neither seem to hold it comfortably, but that doesn't make sense. He adjusts his hold, frowning at how much heavier it feels now. 

Cas walks in the room, eyes immediately finding Dean before bouncing away. The gun lands to the table with a dull thud, and Dean's so very glad it's not loaded. Sam makes a small sound in the back of his throat, gesturing wildly at the gun, as if it hitting the table makes his point. 

It kinda does, but Dean just scoffs. 

“Shut up,” Dean barks, pointing at Sam. 

“But--” 

“Sam.” 

Sam's eyebrows pull together. “Maybe you need to, I dunno, talk to someone.” 

“Yes, that's a  _ wonderful  _ idea. I'm sure a therapist would have a field day with me,” Dean grumbles. 

“Maybe not a therapist, but me? No, that's not gonna happen,” Sam decides immediately after the suggestion, huffing. “Talk to Cas.” 

Cas’ head snaps over, eyes wide. “What?” 

Dean turns to him with a sarcastic smile. “Sam wants me to talk to someone about my time as a demon. He's suggesting you. How about it, Cas? We can talk all about it, maybe make a scrapbook, possibly even braid each other's hair.” 

“I actually might have something that may help,” Cas says awkwardly, casting his gaze away. 

Sam perks up. “Show us.” 

Cas doesn't say anything; his lips thin out, and he leaves without preamble. Dean watches him go, eyes following the determined stride. Cas’ legs are strong, perfect pillars to get him where he is going. Dean remembers what they felt like wrapped around his waist, how they tightened, how they-- 

“Don't laugh,” Cas announces as he walks back into the room, a scowl already on his face. 

Laughing is the farthest thing from Dean's mind as he banishes the feeling of thighs gripping his hips. He clears his throat, keeps his gaze right on Cas’ face, fights the urge to scan down, to appreciate. 

“What is it?” Sam asks, leaning forward excitedly. 

Cas holds out a green journal, complete with a little girly clasp to keep it closed. “You may not be comfortable talking with anyone, but you can write down some of the things that happened. I've heard that writing can be very therapeutic.” 

Dean  _ really  _ doesn't want it. He doesn't want to write in a journal about his feelings, and he doesn't want to put his thoughts on paper. But Cas holds it out to him patiently, a veiled look of hope on his face, and Dean can see how desperate he is to help. 

Dean thinks about what would help, thinks about liquor burning his chest, thinks about pretty pink lips parted around a moan and pupils blown so wide that the blue is nearly gone, thinks about pulling the trigger and watching a monster fall with a dull thump. Chest tightening, Dean bats all his thoughts away and reaches out to pluck the journal from Cas’ hands. He clears his throat and nods in thanks. 

“That can really help, Dean,” Sam murmurs seriously, nodding to Cas in respect. “I've heard that you can write down all the bad shit and burn it, and it's supposed to help and bring closure.” 

Dean's head turns in the wrong direction, going to the left when he meant to look right, and he has a feeling that he won't be getting any closure. 

* * *

Dean opens the journal and looks out into the hall. His door is open, but it's dark outside the glow of the light from his room. He swallows, turning back to the blank, lined paper before him. 

Carefully, he picks up his pen and writes. 

**_This is so stupid, but okay. Being a demon was such bullshit. Who even gets to walk around and be free and do whatever they want to whoever they want just because? The only good thing that came out of being a demon was karaoke. And Cas, maybe. Probably shouldn't say that, but this will be burned later. So, might as well._ **

**_Getting to be with Cas was so strange. Being a demon meant not holding back from wants, meant not caring about what the desires were, just obtaining them. Desiring Cas, without any care or worry, had been like a breath of fresh air. He was so fucking gentle, so_ **

Dean snatches his hand from the journal, slamming the pen down with a thud. He stares at the words, eyes wide, heart in his throat. 

Very carefully, Dean picks up the pen and puts it to the paper, writing one word and tracing it over and over until the pen nearly pierces the next page. 

The last word on page one reads:  **_NO._ **

* * *

Arms encircle him, catching him as he sags, and Dean blinks around blearily. He isn't sure what's going on, but he's fairly certain he was just listening to music on his bed. Cas’ arms push him up and away, face pinched in concern, and Dean realizes he must have fallen asleep. 

“Good morning,” Dean says casually, stepping away from Cas’ outstretched hands. 

Cas looks worried. “Dean, are you alright?” 

“Why wouldn't I be?” 

“It's just--well, you just came in here and sort of…fell into my arms. Are you feeling ill?” 

“Not like we haven't been in each other's arms before, Cas,” Dean snaps without thinking. 

Which, while entirely true, it isn't something he's supposed to mention. They're not supposed to talk about what happened, not supposed to be thinking about it, not supposed to acknowledge it. They're supposed to act like it never happened. 

That's proving to be very difficult for Dean. 

There are  _ wants  _ scratching against his skin, begging to be let out. Releasing them once wasn't his fault, but it's a bitch of a problem to handle. 

How's he supposed to forget the feeling of Cas writhing in his arms, panting in his ear, staring at him with such reverence and  _ need?  _ Dean can't; it's like the memories lay in the center of his brain, latched onto every other part, pushing its into every fucking thought he has. It's just… _ there.  _

Cas clears his throat. “I'm merely stating that the behavior is unlike you, Dean.” 

Dean nods. “Right, sorry. I was just…still asleep, I guess. Didn't mean to run into you, man.” 

“You're forgiven,” Cas says immediately, latching onto the flimsy excuse almost eagerly. 

“What's for breakfast?” Dean asks, walking over to the coffee pot. 

He goes to reach with his left hand, and his right nearly knocks it over. Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, Dean very carefully makes his right hand reach for the coffee pot while his left grabs a mug. He opens his eyes when his coffee is poured without any accidents. 

“Bacon and waffles,” Cas answers. 

Dean perks up, turning towards Cas. “Oh? What's the occasion?” 

Cas shrugs, averts his eyes. “Nothing, just wanted to do something nice for you is all.” 

“For me?” Dean blurts in surprise.

“Yes, for you. Sam's out, visiting Jody about that car he wants. I figured I'd make you breakfast,” Cas tells him, throwing him a gentle smile. 

Dean chuckles, and without thinking, jokes, “If you're trying to get in my pants, you're doing a hell of a good job, Cas.” 

Cas visibly flinches and goes still, hands coming down at his sides. The light feeling of humor and comfort falls away, and Dean swallows. Fuck, he's so fucking stupid. They'd  _ just  _ found even ground, and of course, Dean goes and fucks it up. 

“I'm not--” 

“I know, Cas… I'm sorry.” 

Cas turns to him with an expression of fury, looking ready to smite, frustration and confusion clear in his face. “Do you wish to talk about it, Dean? Is that why you're insistent on bringing it up?” 

“I'm  _ not,”  _ Dean starts, stops, realizes that Cas is right about him bringing it up. He clenches his jaw, tears his gaze away, mutters, “I'm sorry.” 

“We can,” Cas murmurs softly, tone suggestive, sounding like an offer for something more than just a talk, but he continues with, “if you want.” 

Dean forces himself not to let his mind overrun his mouth. Slowly, he says, “What's there to talk about?” 

“We were…intimate, Dean. There are a number of things we could discuss.” 

_ Like if we should do it again, right here, right now, on the kitchen table, moaning as the bacon burns,  _ Dean's mind unhelpfully provides. 

“Is there anything  _ you  _ want to talk about?” Dean asks instead, rolling his head on his shoulders as if to dislodge the filthy thoughts. 

Cas purses his lips for a moment. “I want to know how you're doing after…everything. You're well-being matters more to me than what we agreed was a mistake.” 

_ He can't even say it,  _ Dean thinks grudgingly. 

“Shit happens, Cas, you know that. Just another thing I've had to deal with. Gimme some time, and I'll be back to normal. Right as rain before you know it, I promise,” Dean chirps as cheerfully as he can manage, giving him a thumbs up, or trying to, frowning when his thumb and pinky pops up. 

“I want you to take this seriously, Dean. Every single time something happens to you, you just blow right over it; you can't keep ignoring your problems.” 

“Kinda a habit at this point.” 

Cas shoots him a disapproving look as he pokes the bacon sizzling in the pan with a fork. “Are you using your journal? You need to use your journal.” 

“Yes, I'm using my journal,” Dean sighs, rolling his eyes and fighting a smile. 

“And you  _ can  _ talk to me, you know that, right?” Cas urges gently, lifting stupidly soft, blue eyes. “About anything, about being a demon, every part of it, even the…intimate parts.” 

Dean forces himself to stay calm. Here's his chance; he can talk about it, maybe get it off his mind. He chooses his words carefully. “You never said how you…felt about it.” 

Cas turns to face the bacon, and Dean almost thinks Cas won't answer, but after a long beat of silence, he finally says, “I'm not sure what you want me to say, Dean. We agreed it was a mistake, didn't we?” 

“Well,  _ yes,  _ but that doesn't mean we can't, you know, talk about it. And it must have affected you too, maybe even more than me,” Dean murmurs. 

“How so?” Cas asks, words tight and cautious. 

Dean frowns at his back. “Dude, you fucked a demon.” 

Cas’ body jolts, his shoulders wrenching up to land right around his ears. It takes a moment before he relaxes. When he does, Cas whirls around on him, eyes bright and sparking with anger. Dean thinks he's beautiful when he's riled up, abruptly wants to get up, push into Cas and kiss him. 

“I  _ fucked  _ my best friend turned demon,” Cas corrects sharply, drawing up to full height. “And to be fair, I was going through a lot, what with my grace depleting, and you being…well.” 

Dean snorts. “I was there, you know. You were pretty messed up, but you didn't seem too, uh, worried about fucking a demon at the time.” 

Cas sort of deflates, heaving a sigh. “You are Dean to me, no matter the form. I cannot express enough that I didn't do…that with a demon, but with  _ you.”  _

Dean has to look away, can't stare at the defeated expression on Cas’ face anymore. His chest is too tight, feels like it's too small to hold him together. He feels seconds from splintering apart, unknown body parts finally falling away to leave him free. 

Somehow, hearing that Cas went into sex with  _ Dean,  _ demonic state or no, is worse than if he'd just said that fucking a demon just  _ happened.  _

“It was good, wasn't it?” Dean asks roughly, trying to keep his knees from bouncing and failing. 

Cas lets out a slow breath, somehow sounding wistful and full of regret all at once. “Yes, yes it was.” 

“We should--” 

And Dean stops himself, stops himself so hard that his teeth clack together. His nostrils flare as he glares down at the tabletop, trying to beat his mind into submission. He's not doing this, not to himself, not to Cas, not to their friendship. 

“We should what, Dean?” 

Dean jerks his gaze up, forces himself to be casual and nonchalant. “Eat breakfast, Cas,” he says easily, effectively shutting down the conversation. 

As Cas turns away to fix Dean a plate, he looks just slightly disappointed. 

* * *

Dean opens his journal, takes a deep breath, and writes: 

**_My body doesn't feel like mine anymore. The wrong hands move, I can't control my thoughts, and sleeping is the worst. It's like being possessed, or blacking out, or worse. I don't remember falling asleep, don't remember waking up. It gets worse every time. Just yesterday, I walked right into Cas’ arms, dropping against him like a fucking lovesick idiot._ **

**_I'm not._ **

**_Does he remember it like I do? The way it felt, how good it was. It was different, even as a demon, it meant more. I didn't care that he was my best friend, I only cared that I wanted him. Basically, being a demon turned me into a fucking selfish prick who took what he wanted without thinking of consequences._ **

**_Fucking asshole._ **

**_He let me, though. Why? Why did he let me touch him, kiss him, fuck him? He sure seemed to enjoy it too. I can still fucking hear how he moaned, like he wasn't an angel, like he finally found heaven, right there, with me. Jesus, what was he thinking?_ **

**_What am I thinking? The thoughts, they won't go away. They're like a disease or something. Over something stupid too. He smiles, I remember how he smiled against my skin. Stupid, stupid shit._ **

**_I just want to go back to normal, back to when my skin didn't feel too big and too tight at the same time, back to when I didn't wanna fuck my best friend on every open available surface, back to dreaming._ **

**_Fuck, this is so goddamn stupid. This journal is supposed to help, but I just feel worse._ **

Dean pulls away and slams the journal closed with a thud, gritting his teeth. He shoves away from the desk, moves towards his bed, then he's walking into the library towards Cas. 

He stops, blinking in surprise. 

Cas looks up from his chair with a frown, eyebrows pinching together. “Are you alright, Dean?” 

“Yeah, I'm--I'm fine,” Dean whispers. 

But  _ god,  _ he's really not. 

* * *

Sam sighs again, heavy and pointed, and Dean finally peels his eyes from his laptop. 

“What is it?” 

Sam immediately turns to him. “Okay, I got a case. You won't  _ believe  _ what I found--” 

“Don't tell me,” Dean says quickly, raising his hand to halt Sam. “Don't say another word.” 

“What, why?” Sam blurts, frowning. 

“Because I can't go,” Dean mutters, dropping his eyes back to his laptop screen. 

“What's wrong?” Sam asks immediately. 

Dean looks up. “Not feeling up to it yet, okay? Take Donna; she's on a staycation.” 

Sam bites his lip for a moment. “Are you sure? I mean, if you're not okay, maybe we should--” 

“You know what,” Dean says quickly, slamming his laptop closed and standing up, “Cas and I have plans today. Call Donna. I'll see you after the case, okay?” 

“Dean, what-- Dean!” 

Dean makes a beeline for the library, blatantly ignoring Sam calling after him. He surges into the room without preamble, not a thought in his mind, and Cas looks up, greets him with a smile. 

“We're going for a drink,” Dean announces. 

Cas closes his book, standing with a sigh. “Okay.” 

Dean gives a nod and turns on his heel, stalking out the room. Cas follows dutifully, quiet and calm. They go out to the garage, pile in Baby, and head out without saying a word. Cas’ hand sits in the seat between them, and Dean aches to reach out and grab it, intertwine their fingers, link them together by a small, careful grip. 

He wants to be tethered to Cas in too many ways, by hand, by body, by love.

“Are you and Sam arguing?” Cas asks lightly. 

“Not exactly. He wants to go on a hunt, but I'm not ready for it.” 

“Well, you will be ready with time. I think it's a good thing that you're aware of yourself enough to know that it's not time for you to hunt again. I'm proud of you for saying no, Dean.” 

Dean looks over to smile at Cas. “Thanks, man.” 

“Of course, Dean, anytime.” 

The tension they always hold between them lightens and falls away. Dean thinks, for a moment, that they can do this. They know what a moan sounds like from each other, but that doesn't mean they have to forget to be friends. And he believes it fully, right up until he looks over at Cas, sees the peace and contentment on his face, thinks that's how he looks after sex, all loose and relaxed. Dean likes it, wants to be the reason, can't stop thinking about bringing those feelings to Cas in a different way. 

Dean forces himself to look away, doesn't look back until they're pulling into the bar parking lot. 

“I'll grab us a table, you go grab a couple of beers,” Dean tells him casually, nodding to the overcrowded bar with a sarcastic grin. 

Cas rolls his eyes, but splits off to do as Dean asks. Dean finds a table and sits, eyes on Cas, watching him from afar. He's not really looking at what's going on, just focusing on the undeniable steadiness of Cas’ body. Concentrating on Cas, he never really sees the guy shove his way into the too small space beside Cas at the bar. 

But when the man reaches out and shoves Cas, hand pushing Cas away from the bar, Dean feels anger travel down his back. Heat sparks under his skin, and he slides out of the booth without thinking. The man is yelling at Cas, red face with anger and alcohol, and Dean isn't  _ thinking.  _

As Dean approaches, Cas holds his hands up in a placating manner, soothes, “I don't want any trouble, sir. You're entirely too inebriated to be in your right mind. Perhaps you should go home.” 

And Dean can see how this will play out. The man will get angry, probably curse some more, and after a lot of shouting, he'll be kicked out. Cas will probably call him a cab, pay for it, send him on his way in obvious exasperation at humanity. But Dean isn't about to let it get that far. 

Not a thought in his mind, just fury rattling his bones, Dean walks right up to the man, puts his left hand on his shoulder, brings his right up in a fist, snapping out and punching him with full force. The man lets out a sharp curse and falls back, clutching at his jaw, staring at Dean in bleary shock. Dean shakes out his hand and gives a wicked smile. 

“Is there a fucking problem?” Dean asks seriously, raising his eyebrows. 

Cas makes a small sound, shuffling up behind Dean, grabbing his elbow. “Dean, it's fine, stop.” 

“The fuck?” the man barks, forcing himself to unsteady feet, swaying in place. 

Dean jerks his finger over his shoulder at Cas, narrowing his eyes. “You got a problem with him?” 

The man tilts his chin up. “So what if I do? You gonna do something about it?” 

It's not really worth it, Dean knows that. The man probably isn't an asshole usually, maybe even a really good guy under normal circumstances, and Cas definitely can take care of himself. And Dean really shouldn't feel as enraged and protective as he does. This kind of shit happens everyday. 

The man makes a jerky movement at Cas, like maybe he's gonna try to hit him from so far away. It won't connect, that's obvious to anyone with eyes, but it really doesn't fucking matter to Dean. 

With entirely too much delight, Dean reaches out with his left hand, grips the man's hair to hold his head still, and uses his right to punch the man straight in his face. He hits him hard, once, twice, a third time, then there's blood. Dean is enjoying it, wanting to hit until the man can't even form a wrong expression in Cas’ direction. He's halfway there when Cas’ arm hooks around his body, tugging him from the bar, scolding him sharply in his ear. 

Dean doesn't stop fighting to get back to the unfortunate fool until he's outside. Fresh air hits his face, and his back hits the brick side of the building. Cas crowds him, an arm pinning his chest, their faces mere inches apart. 

Cas’ eyes are bright with anger, and his lips twist when he shouts, “What were you thinking?”

Dean gives a breathless laugh, the sting in his knuckles and Cas’ body so close to his feeling like a balm to a wound. “I wasn't,” he breathes out in open excitement, chest heaving. “That was the most fun I've had since being cured!” 

“Fun…  _ fun!”  _ Cas bellows, eyes widening. “You could have seriously injured him!” 

Dean nods. “Yeah, that was the point. He shouldn't have tried to fight you.” 

“He was drunk, and stupid, and not thinking clearly. What was your excuse?” Cas hisses in disappointment, lip curling. 

“He shouldn't have--” 

“I'm perfectly capable of handling myself, Dean.” 

The words are practically growled into his mouth, they're standing so close. They stand there, hovering so near, a sudden silence surrounding them. It feels like they're on the precipice of something, teetering carelessly on an edge, practically begging to fall. Dean realizes it's not adrenaline pumping through him, it's  _ arousal.  _

Panic pushes him to reach out and shove Cas back, to force some space and rationality between them. He sucks in a sharp breath, tamps down on the desire coursing through him, tries not to replay the image of Cas arching up in pleasure in tecnicolor in his mind. Carefully, he searches for the unease and endless waves within him, suddenly scrambling to feel off-kilter, needing something to ground him. 

He hasn't felt so much like himself since he was cured. Suddenly, it's as if there isn't a thing wrong with him, just as he desperately wishes there was. Such is his life. 

Clearing his throat, Dean says, “I know. I know you can--look, I'm sorry. Shouldn't have done that.” 

“I'm not a damsel, he was not a threat. Dean, you are many things,  _ many  _ that consist of violence, but you never prey on people who do not deserve it.” Cas tilts his chin up, lips pursing for a moment. His eyes narrow and he murmurs, “Why did you do that?” 

“He was threatening  _ you.  _ And I know that's bullshit, that you coulda tossed him on his ass, but…my mind didn't care about that. It felt-- Cas, I enjoyed it.” 

“What parts did you enjoy?” 

Dean's eyebrows shoot up. “What do you mean?” 

“The violence or protecting me? What part did you enjoy?” Cas asks carefully, eyes watching him in serious contemplation. 

“Both, Cas.” Dean swallows thickly, and when he speaks again, the words come out in a croak. “I enjoyed keeping you safe as much as I enjoyed making him bleed.” 

Something like concern flashes through Cas’ eyes, and Dean suddenly feels like he's going to be sick again. 

“Let's go home,” Cas announces softly, eyes flicking to the ground, whole body strung tight like a cord. 

Dean says, “Okay,” yet he feels everything but. 

When they get home, they go their separate ways, back to pretending like nothing happened. 

Dean doesn't remember falling asleep, or waking up, and he nearly trips when the wrong leg leads him into the kitchen the next morning. Cas doesn't meet his eyes, Dean feels like he has motion-sickness, and Sam is none the wiser. 

Back to regular scheduled programming then. 

* * *

Dean sits at his desk, flips to the third page in his book, writes: 

**_It's like two steps forward, then three steps back. One moment, everything is fine, the next, I can't fucking walk properly._ **

**_The only time I feel like myself is when I'm doing stupid shit with Cas, or fighting some fucking idiot at a bar. Any other time, I feel like waves inside my own body. Like an ocean lives inside my bones. God, I fucking hate the ocean. It just rocks, rocks, rocks._ **

**_Everything else feels like shit. My gun doesn't fit in my hand anymore. What kinda bullshit is that? How can a gun not fit? And my skin feels too small, or too big, and I can't decide if I'm crammed in my own body, or if I'm not fitting at all. That doesn't even make any sense. I'm not making any sense._ **

**_And I miss dreams, or even nightmares. God, I just miss falling asleep. I miss waking up. Sometimes, it feels like I'm living in fragments or something, like I'm only here for small snapshots of the rest of my life._ **

**_What happened to me?_ **

**_Sometimes, it feels like I was never even cured._ **

“Dean?” 

Dean jerks away from his journal and slams it shut, whirling around in his chair. Sam flicks his gaze at the journal, then back to Dean, but he doesn't give away anything with his face. 

“What?” Dean asks, tries not to be embarrassed. 

“Just checking on you,” Sam says casually, leaning against the doorway and crossing his arms. 

Dean sighs and rolls his eyes. “Again? Jesus, Sam, when are you gonna stop treating me like I'm gonna break at any moment?” 

“When you stop acting weird,” Sam says seriously, shrugging unapologetically. 

“Fuck off,” Dean grunts, standing up swiftly. He takes a careful step and has to catch himself on the chair when his foot moves to the side instead of forward. 

Sam points at him. “Like that. Dude, you're acting like a baby calf or something, like you haven't learned to use your body yet. You can't keep a grip on anything, and you are always nearly falling because you spaz out. It's weird, Dean.” 

Dean forces himself to walk to his bed, stomach rolling at just how nauseous he feels. He tries not to lean back and forth, but he can't help it, he's trying to escape the rocking within him. 

“I'm fine,” Dean lies gruffly. 

Sam stares at him seriously. “I really don't believe you. I mean, you won't even go on a hunt. Are you  _ sure  _ there's nothing you want to talk about?” 

“No, I'm good.” 

“Dean, I'm  _ serious.  _ You can tell me anything on your mind, man. Just talk--” 

“I had sex with Cas,” Dean blurts out. 

_ Shit.  _

Sam blinks rapidly, arms unfolding and falling limply to his sides. “Oh,” he says weakly. 

Dean clears his throat, looks away. “It was when I was a demon.” 

Sam's back straightens, and his eyes widen even more as his mouth parts in surprise. Dean peeks at him through his lashes, biting his lip as anxiety washes through him. Sam coughs, reaches up to scratch the tip of his nose, and shuffles awkwardly in place. 

“That's…um, wow. Did you two talk about it?” Sam asks slowly, eyebrows pinching together. 

Dean gives a feeble shrug. “After. We agreed it was a mistake.” 

“But you did it?” Sam hums, arching an eyebrow in challenge. 

“I dunno what to tell you, man. It just… _ happened,”  _ Dean admits quietly. 

There's silence for a long moment, and Dean still feels like he's going to be sick. Sam keeps on watching him, mouth pulled into a frown. 

“I didn't know you…like guys.” 

“I--I dunno.” 

Sam tuts. “Cas is very guy-shaped, Dean.” 

“I  _ know  _ that, Sam,” Dean huffs, narrowing his eyes at Sam. “Look, I happen to think dudes have the capacity to be hot too, okay? Is there something wrong with that?” 

“No,” Sam says immediately, waving a hand. 

“Alright then,” Dean growls, gritting his teeth. 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Dean, I literally don't care. I did go to college, you know. If you don't think I didn't experiment, you're sorely mistaken. I'm not gonna judge you, or whatever.” 

“Why are you focusing on my sexuality? I had sex with our best friend _.  _ Don't you have something to say about that?” Dean snaps. 

“No, not really. What you and Cas do is between you. I'd like for y'all to be happy, no doubt, but it's none of my business what y'all do together, just like if it was me and Cas,” Sam tells him easily. 

“I guess,” Dean sighs, shaking his head. 

Sam's eyebrows jump. “You're actually  _ asking  _ for advice, aren't you? Wow, this is really getting to you. Is this what's been throwing you off so much?” 

“Not exactly,” Dean admits with a grimace. “I've been feeling off ever since I was cured. I just need time.” 

Sam gives him a lopsided smile. Easy, familiar, accepting,  _ family.  _ Dean really needs that right now. Sam chuckles, murmurs, “Why don't you figure out what you want to do about Cas, then just talk to  _ Cas  _ about it. He's your best friend, Dean. Y'all are gonna be okay, no matter what, that I'm sure of.” 

“You think so?” Dean mumbles, averting his eyes. 

“Hell yeah,” Sam assures him easily, backing up towards the door. “There's not a doubt in my mind. Figure it out, talk to Cas, and oh, hey, you'll tell me if things get worse instead of better, right?” 

Things have only been getting worse, but Dean nods and says, “Right.” 

“Good,” Sam chirps, pleased. “Maybe get some rest. I'll wake you for dinner.” 

Sam opens the door and leaves, closing it behind him with a soft click. Just leaves like Dean and Cas having sex isn't earth-shattering news. It should be, it is to  _ Dean.  _ But Sam genuinely doesn't care, doesn't want to get involved, just wants them to be happy. It's such a  _ Sam  _ way to be, and Dean can't even be frustrated with him for it because it's clearly  _ right.  _

Dean groans and flops back on the bed, releasing a deep breath. 

Next thing he knows, he's crawling into Cas’ bed, falling to lay beside him. Cas blinks at him and lays his book across his chest. Dean blinks around in surprise, not quite sure how he got here. 

“Was I just asleep?” Dean asks Cas, eyes wide. 

Cas frowns at him. “Sam said you were taking a nap. I wasn't aware you woke up.” 

Dean closes his eyes and thumps his head back against the pillow under his head. “Me neither.” 

“Dean, are you alright?” Cas asks slowly, sitting up in the bed. 

“No,” Dean admits. 

When Dean opens his eyes again, Cas is gone. 

* * *

Sam and Cas corner him in the kitchen, standing shoulder to shoulder, showing a united front so fucking easily. Dean wishes he was drunk. 

“Something is wrong with you,” Cas says seriously. 

There's been something wrong with Dean since he was four fucking years old, and he doubts that's ever going to change. He can probably list off the things that  _ aren't  _ wrong with him quicker than the things that are. 

Dean opens his hands, leans back on the counter, tries not to rock. “Oh? Do tell.” 

“This is serious, Dean.” Sam's eyebrows crumble together like they always do when he's truly worried about something. “You're not getting any better.” 

“I'm fine,” Dean grits out. 

Cas stares at him flatly. “You're not.” 

“Yeah, I'm so fucked up, I  _ know.  _ Go ahead, tell me your theories! Is it that my time with the black eyes, plus my memories from hell, and purgatory, and dying, and every other fucked up thing I've been through  _ finally  _ caught up to me? Or was I not cured properly? Am I just sick? Is this my consequences for my sins? Shit, I fucked an angel, that has to be enough to make God wanna divvy out some divine punishment. Blasphemy, anyone?” 

Cas clenches his jaw, eyes narrowing to slits. Sam wisely does not comment on that. 

Instead, he says, “I've done some digging--” 

“Big fucking surprise,” Dean scoffs, trying to force his head to turn, grinding his teeth when it doesn't. 

"--and we need a witch," Sam continues. 

"For  _ what?"  _ Dean snaps, crossing his arms, glaring at the floor with all the anger in his steadily off-kilter frame. He feels like there's an ocean in his chest. 

"Demonic possession is fickle," Sam tells him, leaning back against the fridge, blocking the beer because he's an asshole. "We both know that." 

"I wasn't possessed." 

"Well, no, but it's the same basis." 

"It's really not," Dean insists. "I  _ was  _ the demon." 

Cas nods. "Yes, but that's not the part that matters. Anytime a soul is invaded with evil, it's perpetually under attack, especially a soul such as yours." 

"Such as mine? What does that even mean?" Dean blurts, frowning at Cas. 

"It means that your soul is brighter than most. My grace has come in contact with it twice now, which only adds to its purity," Cas says. 

Dean blinks. "Wait, so when we--" 

_ "No,"  _ Cas interrupts firmly. "You were a demon then. If my grace--even borrowed as it was--had come into contact with your soul, it would have hurt." 

"Oh." Dean frowns. "So, when you came back and caught me before being cured, that was your grace?" 

"I had to hurt you to contain you," Cas replies unapologetically. "The first time my grace came in contact with your was in Hell; it left a mark. Your soul is greatly weakened against evil in any form, even compared to a regular person's." 

"Basically, evil and you don't mix well," Sam says calmly, shrugging. "So, when  _ you  _ went evil, it sent your soul into a frenzy. Curing you just rid you of the evil; it didn't help your soul." 

Dean stares at them, wonders what it took for them to figure this out, then asks, "Why do we need a witch? What can a witch do?" 

"Right now, your soul is misaligned. It's--how would you say it--freaking the hell out," Cas explains plainly. "The evil is gone, but the trauma hasn't diminished. It's very confused, unsure of what can help it, and that affects your very body." 

"Kinda like being outta rhythm," Sam says easily, lips twitching. "That's why you feel off, why you keep stumbling around and dropping shit." 

"And what? A witch is gonna just cure me?" 

"No, not any witch.  _ Rowena."  _

Dean scowls. "No. Absolutely not. She's not getting anywhere near my soul." 

"It needs to be soothed, Dean," Cas says, his voice softening, still rough and tumble as ever. 

"Then  _ you  _ soothe it," Dean snaps harshly, pushing away from the counter. "Might as fucking well; you've already left your mark on it, and me, and my thoughts, my fucking body, just  _ everything."  _

Cas flinches as if he's been slapped, and Dean immediately wants to take the words back. They hurt, scraping the inside of his chest, leaving blots of wrongness inside his mind. He thinks, as his ears ring with his latest mistake, that they have it all wrong. He's not off-kilter because the evil invaded him; he's just lost with it gone. 

Dean can't stay here, can't look at Cas' pain any longer, so he leaves. Just turns and walks out of the kitchen, ignoring Sam's deep sigh. He runs. 

* * *

Dean has no idea how long he's been awake, but he's pleased to find himself sitting up in a bed. He realizes belatedly that it's not  _ his bed.  _ Too late to do anything about it, however, because Cas comes easing into the room with a troubled expression. He catches sight of Dean and goes still. 

"Dean," Cas says, closes his mouth, breathes. He doesn't sound upset, or angry, or  _ anything.  _ His eyes are locked on Dean. 

"It was so good," Dean breathes out, his eyes sinking closed, his throat going tight as the memories wash over him. Flashes of skin on skin, fingers holding on hard enough to bruise, teeth digging roughly into skin to leave marks. His whole body tingles with the reminder, heart racing in his chest. He opens his eyes, stares at Cas earnestly, so damn desperate for  _ something,  _ anything. "You know it was." 

Cas surveys him closely, and he looks so calm that Dean almost believes he's unaffected, but his throat bobs around a swallow, and Dean wants to trace the motion with his tongue. The room is so  _ hot,  _ and so fucking big, and Dean feels like he's suffocating. 

"Rowena will arrive tomorrow and you will feel better," Cas tells him. 

"Is my fucked up soul making me--" Dean stops, isn't sure he wants to voice what exactly he's feeling, doesn't know if he can. But Cas watches him patiently, waiting, and Dean forces the words out, doing his best to not choke on them. "I want--it's like I crave the things from when I was a demon." 

"Your soul needs soothing, not remodeling. What you want is entirely your own," Cas says. 

Dean closes his eyes and presses back into the pillows. It's an answer, one he's not sure he wants. He knows it's not far-fetched to want something and also not  _ want to  _ want it; he's been practicing that particular skill for the majority of his life. Maybe he doesn't allow himself the things he wants, or maybe he wants the wrong things, or--and this one feels frighteningly close to the truth--he wants all the things he doesn't actually deserve to have. 

His life is many things, but it never fails to be ironically nihilistic. Nothing really matters, not in the grand scheme of things, but every move he makes feels like a catastrophic mistake. Everything he says, does, thinks feels like the roadmap to ruin, and Dean is terrified to take one more step. 

Dean's last step had led him to demonism, so you can imagine the stress he is under. 

"I want…" Dean takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, watching Cas jolt at the abrupt movement. "I want a lot of things, Cas. I want to kill monsters, and I want to fight until my lungs are on fire, and I want to do karaoke, and I want--" 

"Dean," Cas says softly, his face collapsing into something tender, like he knows what Dean's not saying. And he must, he has to know, because Cas knows him down to his very last molecule, knows how to pick what he's not saying out of the air, and it's like a special talent of his to be able to hold Dean's gaze and read every single thing from the cradle of pain in his green eyes. Cas always knows, even when he pretends not to. 

"You came when I called," Dean says forcefully, his voice rough with accusation, because someone has to be at fault, and Dean doesn't want to be solely responsible for this. "You  _ knew  _ what I was, and you came running anyway." 

Cas doesn't deny it, nods and sighs slightly, twitching like he's expecting be yelled at. There's a spark of defiance in his eyes, however, as his lips part and he says, "But you called me." 

"I wasn't--" Dean stops. He was, he completely was, and he can't lie to Cas, who knows that Dean was himself the entire time. "That's not on me." 

"No, it isn't. Not if you don't want it to be," Cas says carefully, not blinking. He hasn't blinked through this entire conversation, more angel than man when Dean least needs the reminder. 

They're talking in circles and it isn't fair. Dean has held Cas in his scarred hands, brushing up against the cosmos, cupping the infinite in his palms, and he didn't stop to think about how addictive that would become. It didn't matter, not then, because he'd have went back for more shamelessly, because he had no shame when he stopped caring. He's kissed skin that contains boundless power, and he's looked into eyes that withholds kaleidoscopes of the universe, and he was so much of himself that he'd never stopped to think about the consequences of doing so. A film of black had blocked his vision, filtering out all the things he'd seen so clearly before--the need to hold back, the need to deny himself what he's wanted for as long as he can remember--but he hadn't been blind. He'd known how it would destroy him, ruin him for everything else, and he hadn't cared. 

Dean cares now, because he can't help it, and he hates it. Hates them both for doing it, for acting like it wouldn't be a heavy point between them, for going on like they don't remember how good it had been. He's so,  _ so  _ angry--at Cas, at himself. 

"I'm not doing this," Dean says, and he's not sure what he's even running from right now, but the need to escape doesn't diminish. More honestly than he usually is, he admits in a croak, "I can't." 

Cas just nods, says, "Okay," and turns around, walking out of his own room, leaving Dean laying on his bed like it doesn't matter. 

Dean guesses that it doesn't. 

* * *

"Well, you've got yourself in a wee bit of trouble, haven't you, dear?" Rowena asks as she sits beside his bed, sitting down a soft leather bag. 

Dean flicks his gaze to Sam. "What are we giving her in exchange for her...services?" 

Rowena titters like she's pleased to know her reputation consists of bribery. "Oh, this and that. Nothing you'll miss, of course." She looks over at Cas, her eyes molten with heat. "Though, should you ever need it, I'd be willing to give it to you on a loan for that handsome angel." 

Dean tenses despite himself, and everyone can hear it, can hear how he goes solid and slides on his own sheets. Cas clears his throat and looks down. 

"Just some ingredients," Sam tells Dean, shaking his head slightly. "We won't need them back." 

"Until we do," Dean mutters in faint exhaustion, his skin feeling stretched too tight over his bones. He catches Rowena's gaze. "Can you fix me?" 

"If I couldn't, I wouldn't be me," Rowena replies easily, crossing her legs and eyeing him with bright amusement. "You'll need to be naked, of course." 

"Ah," Sam says awkwardly, "you didn't mention that part on the phone." 

"She'll need to be as close to his soul as she can. Clothes can hinder the process," Cas murmurs. 

Sam takes a step back. "Well, that's my cue." 

Dean offers Sam a lazy wave, but his fingers spasm like they're not his own, and he just lays his hand back down with a sigh. Sam pauses by the door, looking at Cas, but all that earns him is a firm look. Cas appears to be staying. 

"I do my best work without an audience," Rowena comments, her eyebrows raising as the door shuts behind her with a click of finality. "Plus, I'm certain you'll want to provide Dean some privacy." 

"Nothing he hasn't seen before," Dean mutters and works to stand up without feeling like he's rocking inside his own body. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, fumbles to snatch his shirt off. 

"Dean--" 

"I've got it, Cas." 

Dean doesn't have it, actually. He's been struggling a lot more recently, and simple things are getting harder and harder to do. He's went without wearing his boots because he can't tie the laces, and he's getting dangerously close to resorting to wearing the Dead Guy robe because clothes are just too hard. His shirt comes off with minor fuck-ups, but his belt is a lost cause. He tries, again and again, but he can't get his fingers to open the buckle. 

"Dean," Cas says quietly, a little wrinkle between his eyebrows, "let me help." 

There's not really a choice, so Dean just nods, his shoulders slumping. Cas immediately moves over to stand in front of him, capable fingers darting out to unclip Dean's belt. It's a smooth, unhindered motion, and the very sight of it makes Dean's stomach clench. He can't watch it happen. 

He makes the mistake of looking up and away, startling slightly to see Cas already staring at him, working the problem without even seeing it. Dean's mouth goes dry as they gaze at each other, his veins thrumming with sudden energy, and it would be so easy to lean forward and capture Cas' lips with his own. So much easier than removing his own pants, and that's the kind of fucked-up life he leads. 

Cas halts for a moment, his knuckles brushing the soft bump of Dean's stomach, and he looks like he wants to wait forever to see if Dean will do it, if he'll close that space, if he'll break the rules. Dean takes in a shuddering breath, and Cas starts again. 

Cas gets him naked efficiently after that, seemingly careless to the state of his undress, and Dean does his best to ignore the hurt that makes him feel. He's not aroused, thankfully, but Rowena stares blatantly at his dick with a small hum of consideration. Dean ignores her and lays flat on his bed, staring up at the ceiling without saying a word. 

Rowena reaches into her bag, pulls something out, and says, "Close your eyes and relax." 

Dean does, and the next thing he knows, he's asleep. 

* * *

He's aware that it's a dream, but he's not in any immediate danger, so he doesn't worry right off the bat. He's surprised to find himself sitting in a field of tall grass that itches his elbows and ankles. He's in nothing but jeans and a t-shirt, shoeless and in only one layer, no weapons, but he doesn't feel bothered by his lack of protection. 

"Want a beer?" 

Dean turns his head to see Sam offering him a sweating bottle, his smile soft. He takes it from Sam and twists of the cap, easing into the initial hiss of air being released. "Thanks," he says. 

"We were here in '89, remember?" Sam asks, blinking against the brightness of the sun. "I was just a kid, and Dad stopped off the road to talk to Bobby on the phone. He let us come out here and play while we waited. I think he was asking for money." 

Dean nods. "Yeah, I remember. We'd been a little dry, and Dad didn't have any place for us to sleep. Bobby wanted him to bring us there, but Dad refused. Bobby ended up giving him some money." 

"We played hide and seek out in these weeds for at least two hours," Sam murmurs, sounding amused. He turns to grin at Dean. "I always won because you were bigger and I could see you." 

"Yeah, well, you're the bigger one now, so I'd win," Dean retorts with a snort. "You ain't special." 

"Oh, is that right?" Sam suddenly pushes himself up and looks down at him with an arched eyebrow. "In that case, come and find me, asshole." 

Dean blinks as Sam abruptly turns and darts off. "Sam? Sam! Where the hell-- Sam!" 

"I don't hear you counting!" Sam shouts back with a bark of laughter, and Dean huffs out a short chuckle. 

Things go really quiet, but Dean can hear the faint sound of tall grass crunching and swaying. Despite himself, he closes his eyes and counts to ten slowly. That's all Sam gets, because Dean  _ is _ an asshole. 

When he pushes to his feet, everything is still and silent. Sam must have found his hiding spot. Dean starts walking, trailing his hands over the grass that reaches his hip, even now. The tips are soft yet unrelenting, almost like feathers, and the thought makes him smile. 

Sam is nowhere to be seen. He makes no noise, doesn't give away his position, and he must have covered his tracks because Dean can't see a trace of him anywhere. The field is larger than he remembers, or maybe his young brain at the age of ten hadn't been aware of the distance between one end and the other. Either way, he's got a lot of ground to cover. 

Dean searches and searches, and he can't find Sam anywhere. It stops being fun all of a sudden and worry creeps in uninvited. "Sam," he calls out warily, throat bobbing, "I give up!" 

At first, there's no reply, but moments later, Sam pops up a few feet away with a bright grin, smug as shit. And Dean thinks that he might've lost on purpose back then, just to see the unbridled joy on his little brother's face. Maybe that's what he's been doing his whole life, letting Sam win in moments like this because he doesn't get to win anywhere else. Maybe he's just hardwired to give in when his concern for Sam becomes too much. 

"Your turn," Sam yells, making a show of clapping his hands over his eyes. "One, two, three…" 

Dean doesn't really know why he's indulging this, but he can feel giddy laughter bubbling up in his chest as he takes off in a sprint, Sam's loud counting growing fainter and fainter. He runs as fast as he can, going farther and farther, and then he skids to a stop. Sam's still counting, but his hands start to come down, and Dean drops to his stomach instantly, hiding behind the grass and keeping low. 

He can hear Sam's steps from far off, hear him taunting Dean, hear him faintly muttering to himself. It takes some time, most of which Dean spends in happy anticipation, but Sam eventually draws near. He gets closer and closer, and Dean just  _ knows  _ he's going to be found. 

Dean breaks position with a whoop, hopping up and taking off while Sam yelps in delight. "You only win if you catch me, bitch!" he shouts, pushing himself to run faster as Sam's laughter sounds behind him. 

The sky is baby blue, peppered with popcorn clouds, and it's vast. Dean tosses his head back as he goes trampling through the field, feet pounding against the grass, Sam's joyful laughter echoing behind him. Dean is grinning, happy,  _ free.  _

He looks back, but Sam is gone. 

Dean wakes up. 

* * *

"You're looking better," Sam comments. 

Dean deftly takes his gun apart, puts it back together, then looks up at Sam. "Yeah, well, I am." 

"Feeling better?" Sam asks. 

"Yeah," Dean says, because he is. His body feels like his own now, like waking up in his own skin as opposed to someone else's. "Rowena did good." 

"Then it was worth it," Sam tells him, nodding. 

Dean doesn't reply to that, just goes back to his guns, cleaning them because he can do that now. He can do everything now. He doesn't feel motion-sick, doesn't move with the wrong limbs, and he can dream again. The nightmares are back, but he knows a win when he sees one. Everything is back to normal. 

Cas walks into the kitchen, and Dean thinks,  _ almost everything.  _

Cas had told him that his wants were his own, but it's not fun having that proven. His mouth goes dry with desire if Cas so much enters a room. He's still an unnecessarily beautiful sight, still the main source of Dean's fantasies, still almost unbearably tempting. Dean keeps right on wanting him, keeps right on remembering what it was like for their bodies to click together like perfect puzzle pieces. 

"Good morning," Cas rumbles, smiling at Sam and Dean kindly. His eyes turn extra soft when he looks at Dean. "How are you?" 

"Better," Dean grunts, and he shows off his basic motor skills by quickly taking a gun apart. 

Cas beams. "Good." 

"You wanna hunt again?" Sam asks cautiously, eyebrows raising as he addresses Dean. 

"Yeah, I'm good for it now," Dean agrees, bobbing his head. "What have you got?"

"Nothing solid, yet," Sam admits with a sheepish smile. "But I'll have something by tomorrow." 

"In that case," Cas says calmly, "I will be heading out tomorrow. I have business to attend to in Heaven. Metatron will be going on trial soon." 

Dean goes very still, but he doesn't drop the gun he's putting back together. Sam opens his mouth like he's about to say something, then catches the expression on Dean's face and snaps it shut. Cas just blinks like he hasn't said anything ground-breaking. 

"You gonna be long?" Dean asks as casually as possible, eyes fixated on the gun in his hands, clearing his throat. 

Cas makes a small sound that could honestly mean anything. "It depends." 

_ It depends,  _ Dean echoes in his mind. He wants to ask what it depends on. Wants to know which end it depends on; heaven or them? Dean doesn't know if he's supposed to be saying something to shorten Cas' trip, doesn't know if what he says even matters, doesn't know if he actually wants Cas to come back sooner rather than later. 

Sam, precious  _ perfect Sam,  _ says, "Depends on what?" 

Cryptic as ever, Cas replies, "On where I'm needed." 

Dean lets the gun tumble to the table, but it's entirely his choice. He releases a deep breath, then looks up at Sam. There must be something happening in his eyes or on his face because Sam abruptly stands up. He taps his knuckles to the table. 

"I'm going for a run," he says without any preamble, then walks out of the room without looking back. 

"He's already went running today," Cas says, his eyebrows crumbling together, clearly confused. 

Dean stands up. "You know Sam; he's a freak who runs a lot. Can we--I need to talk to you." 

He doesn't wait for Cas to respond, just heads to his room, taking in deep, calming breaths. He trusts Cas to follow him, despite his own confusion, and he actually does. That one thing alone feels like a punch to the chest, or a slap to the face, or both. Dean goes and Cas follows, easy as anything. 

Dean sweeps his hand out to gesture Cas in his room, throat bobbing as he shuts the door with a quiet click. Cas turns to face him, and there's an undercurrent of wariness flickering in his eyes. Dean can relate; he relates  _ so hard.  _

"I will return," Cas says abruptly. 

Dean coughs. "Yeah, I kinda figured you would. But you--you'll wait until I pray." 

"You'll pray." Cas swallows. "You always do." 

"I don't--that's not what I want," Dean says slowly, frowning down at his shoes. "You've been--you helped a lot with all this. Sam felt better with you here, and I--I always do. You're family, Cas, and you have to know that you can come and go as you please, whenever you want to. Not--not just when I call. You don't have to come every time I call, either." 

"I'll admit, it is a habit," Cas murmurs. 

Dean huffs a short, derisive laugh. "Yeah, and look where that got us." 

Shit,  _ no.  _ That's not what Dean wants this to be about. He can't keep doing this, can't keep bringing up that one thing like it's something he's compelled to shove in their faces. He even burned that fucking journal to expunge as much of it from his life as he can. They had sex, it happened, and that's all there is to it. 

"It is...clear that you have some unresolved issues with what happened," Cas says quietly, sounding resigned. "I'd hoped that we could move on from it, but it appears that you--" 

"Move on," Dean echoes bitterly, mouth twisting as he looks up to meet Cas' eyes. "Move on, just--just  _ move on.  _ Cas, you might be able to forget what happened, but I can't! It's--fuck, it's all I can think about! And that's on  _ us,  _ that's our fault, and we can't just move on from it." 

Cas averts his eyes, his shoulders becoming one tense line between one blink and the next. "We did things, Dean, but that's--" 

"We had  _ sex,  _ Cas," Dean cuts in sharply. He brings his hands up close to his chest and jerks them up and down like he can portray the weight of his next words with gestures. "Really,  _ really  _ good sex."

"Ah," Cas says delicately, his blue eyes slowly raising to look up guiltily. "I apologize for that." 

"You--you're  _ sorry?"  _ Dean blurts, astonished, a rush of utter disbelief washing over him like unexpected rainfall. "Are you serious right now?" 

"What else am I supposed to day?" Cas snaps, sounding genuinely frustrated now, his lips pulling down in his open displeasure. 

Dean jerks his hands around. "I dunno, Cas,  _ anything.  _ Maybe something like:  _ It's okay, Dean, you've invaded my mind, too.  _ Or:  _ Don't worry, Dean, everyone else is ruined for me now, too.  _ How about:  _ That's perfectly fine, Dean, I'm selfishly thankful it happened, too.  _ Just--just anything that's not  _ I'm sorry."  _

"But none of that is the truth." Cas registers Dean's flinch and steps forward to catch his arm as he instantly tries to leave. "It isn't, Dean. You didn't invade my mind; you've always been there. You didn't ruin anyone else for me; there's never been anyone else. I'm  _ not  _ thankful it happened; you were a demon, and that memory is tarnished now." 

"It's not," Dean chokes out, crumbling like a house of cards in a tornado. "It's really not. That memory practically fucking  _ glows  _ in my mind. It's--it's all I can think about, all the fucking time, and I hate it." 

"I don't know how to make it better," Cas admits carefully, his hand dropping from Dean's arm. "I can't take it back." 

"You can--we can do it again," Dean breathes out, curling closer without even meaning to, his hands shaking as he reaches out to touch Cas, like he's something that no one can hold without wilting in awe. Dean licks his lips when Cas lets him grasp his wrists, and he looks up to find blue eyes watching him with a little heat. "We can, Cas. I--I want to." 

"Why?" Cas asks, almost politely curious. 

Dean shrugs, a hopeless gesture. "I can't help it. I always wanted you, that's why I called you as a demon. I took what I wanted then and I didn't care what would come of it. And--and you came, so now I know what it's like to have you, and I just--I can't fucking help it." 

"Dean," Cas murmurs reverently, that one word a tremble of worship and promises, and he reaches out to touch Dean's cheek, effortlessly drawing him in. 

They kiss, and it's like the last piece of Dean's soul clicks into place. He falls into it, curling his hands into Cas, pressing in as close as he can. He remembers this, can recall in perfectly clarity all the ways their bodies fit together. 

"I love you," Dean breathes into his mouth, his eyes shut to block out the reality of those words existing out in the world. 

Cas runs his nose down Dean's cheek. "You said that to me that night. I thought you were being cruel as a demon," he whispers. 

Dean swallows and has to hold back a whine when lips press against the column of his throat. "I meant it. Fuck, I--I didn't really care about holding back the truth, no matter who it would hurt in the process." 

"It doesn't hurt." Cas nips at Dean's jaw, tightening his grip on Dean's hips when he trembles in response. "It makes me happy." 

"Okay." Dean blinks open his eyes, blinking blearily as Cas pulls back to look at him expectantly. Cas waits, and Dean forces himself to breathe, forces himself to let the words go. It shouldn't be so hard; he likes it when Cas is happy. "I...I love you." 

Cas nods. "Good," he says calmly, "then we're in agreement. Now, let me give you what you want." 

Dean lets loose on that whine, a sound like a wounded animal, and he's helpless to hold it in as Cas jerks him roughly by the shirt and tosses him to the bed, his blue eyes nearly glowing. 

"Oh, thank god," Dean breathes out as Cas climbs atop him, straddling his lap. 

Finally, the tension can snap and come out in one gush, giving him a heady feeling of relief. It does, pouring out steadily as Cas rids him of his clothes, snatching and ripping the cloth with a sense of urgency that Dean is matching stride for stride. Cas gets naked too, as quick as he can, and Dean wants to touch every inch of him. 

And he does. 

* * *

So. 

So, the thing about desperation, and want, and  _ desire,  _ and how it controls, is that it's all bullshit, but Dean is helpless to his role in it. 

In the end, however, he embraces it. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Don't hesitate to drop off some kudos and please leave a comment; I really adore them! 
> 
> Ta!
> 
> -SOBS


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